The Beginning Hour
by E. Havisham
Summary: Thirteen year old Chester Matthews and his two young siblings are the sole survivors of the Great Muggle Massacre of 1976. Now they must learn to make their way alone through a frightening world they never knew existed…
1. Chapter 1

The Beginning Hour: Chapter One

Of Stink Bombs and Nightmares

Chester closed his eyes lazily. Bright sunlight beat down on his face and made the insides of his eyelids glow. If warmth could be seen—an element, perhaps, carefully charted on ancient periodic tables—it would shine the color currently infiltrating Chester's vision. Chester smiled. 

Something tugged on Chester's fist. He tightened his grip. 

Another tug. Chester yanked back. His heartless answer to Emma's bid for freedom elicited a pouting cry in response. Instantly, Chester's conscience scolded him—though not harshly enough for him to release her.

"Chesser." Another distraction entered the mix, this time originated from Chester's five-year-old brother.

Chester clenched his eyes tightly, allowing darkness to wash over him like an eclipse.

"Chesser, push me."

"Sure," Chester amicably agreed, without the slightest intention of following through. Grass prickled his ears and the back of his neck. He found that if he turned his head to the left by only a fraction of an inch, the noise of the freeway increased tenfold. With minimal effort, he could imagine himself on Pacific Beach. Brian's request became merely one call among many voices, shouting up and down the boardwalk. He could almost smell the stoners and the deep-fried chalupas.

Suddenly, something skittered across Chester's face. He darted up, eyes snapping open, scrambling backwards. His right hand released its captive to swat frantically at the invisible intruder.

Emma giggled. In her hand was clutched a broken dandelion, which she pointedly brushed across her own cheek. She then scooted away from Chester, innocently marring the rear of her dress with grass stains.

Pretty clever, for a two-year-old.

Boisterous laughter could be heard floating up from behind them, pausing now and then to interject, "A little push. Please."

"Fine. One push. One." Chester held up one finger to clarify the already clear and let his head fall back dramatically. He tilted his chin toward the sky. An up-side-down vision of Brian appeared, kicking at the bark dust below his swing.

Brian nodded meekly, knowing better than to press the issue. "Yeah, just one… to get me going."

As all older siblings can testify, 'just one' never ends up being _just one_.

Several hundred pushes later, Chester felt certain his arms would soon fall off. Emma had joined them, sitting contentedly in a baby swing with an inordinately large number of chains tying her down. She was primly shredding the dandelion, refusing to be pushed but equally adamantly refusing to dismount. 

"I'm gonna touch that tree, Chesser. See it? I'm so close." Brian stretched his legs straight out, straining. "Just a little higher pushes." The tree stood at least five yards away. Brian frequently used the words 'just' and 'little' in contexts where they clearly did not belong.

"Yeah, well, you can touch that tree on your own. My arms are dying." Chester stepped back, rubbing his biceps and waiting for the inevitable complaining to commence. It never did. Brian's legs had gone lax and his eyes were trained fixedly on the sky.

Curious, Chester followed Brian's gaze. Four green smears could be seen floating above several of the houses in the neighborhood. As Chester watched, a fifth appeared, closer than the others.

"Fireworks," Brian cried with glee. "Let's go watch them." He'd already dismounted and was heading toward the spectacle.

Chester reached to pry Emma from the swing before hesitating. "They're all the same color," he observed aloud.

"Yeah," Brian cheerfully agreed. "Green. My favorite color." 

Another whiff of drab green smoke floated upward; the closest yet. It wasn't a particularly stunning firework. There was no accompanying sound—no boom as it ignited, no crackles as it spread across the sky.

"Come on," Brian whined. "Hurry up. We'll miss them."

Chester untangled Emma from the baby swing and set her on the ground. She immediately leaned over and began to painstakingly collect the small shreds of dandelion that she'd strewn across the bark chips.

Someone shouted in the near distance. Chester turned his head in the direction of the voice. A green cloud suddenly appeared, hovering over Mrs. Patterson's house at the edge of the park. Chester snorted. The fireworks were clearly a prank of some sort; after all, the Fourth of July was months ago. Evidently, Mrs. Patterson didn't approve. 

Another shriek came from the house next door. The same green smoke shot upwards. This time, Chester laughed aloud.

"Chesser." Brian had lost all patience (not that he'd possessed much to begin with). "Come on."

"Nuh uh." Chester sagely shook his head. "Those aren't fireworks; they're stink bombs. Look at how the smoke from the first one is still hanging around. I wouldn't go over there for a million bucks."

Brian wasn't so easily deterred. "I want to watch them," he insisted. "I haven't ever seen a stink bomb before."

"You have now. Pretty good ones, too, from the sound of it." As if to verify the claim, Mr. Taylor hollered. Chester grinned evilly: Mom's probably next.

Brian suddenly brightened. "We can watch from the tree fort. Then we'd see everything, I bet, and you wouldn't have to smell it."

To be perfectly honest, Chester was rather eager to witness the mayhem himself. "Not a bad idea." At Chester's praise, Brian swelled, visibly pleased with himself. 

It took several minutes to coax Emma up on the rickety ladder, and several more to carefully help her mount it, but the final view was worth every one of her terrified cries. From the old wooden platform, they could easily see over the high fence surrounding the park and into the neighbor's yards below.

Three figures in dark, floor-length trench coats with the hoods pulled low ran through the Ms. O'Neil's yard. The McNary brothers. It figured. They were the only people Chester knew clever and daring enough to launch a campaign like this in broad daylight.

A woman, probably Ms. O'Neil, screamed in fright. A green cloud gathered above her house. Chester could easily picture the scene inside: Ms. O'Neil was probably chasing Steve McNary through her living room with a Swiffer mop held high above her head. Sure enough, after barely half a minute the McNary brothers came darting out again.

Brian cheered, standing to get a better view of the stink bomb's fumes. "Look," he excitedly pointed. "It looks like a face. A scary one, with a long tongue."

Emma stood up, but Chester quickly pushed her back down again. "Scary?" she asked him with trepidation. Like all little girls growing up with two older brothers, 'scary' was certainly one of the words Emma knew and feared.

"No, not scary," Chester reassured her, "just green. No standing, okay? Mom would kill me if I let you fall off."

Emma nodded wisely and, though it was highly doubtful she understood Chester's warning, she settled back down on the floor. Within minutes, she was entirely engrossed by a long trail of ants marching across the rotting boards. The ants were in for it now.

Brian gave off a whoop as yet another stink bomb let loose a 'face' of green smoke. Chester settled back to take in the view. Within twenty minutes, nearly every house in the neighborhood sported its own personal olive green sentinel. Chester and Brian took turns guessing as to which neighbor would be the next victim. They named several of the faces: Java the Hut. The Jolly Green Giant. Sister Augustine Oliver (an insult to the smoke bomb). Chester laughed so hard that he feared _he'd_ be the one to fall off the fort. 

At one point, nearly halfway through the show, a robed figure appeared at the entrance of the park. His hood turned left, then right, clearly scanning the empty field. Brian insisted they remain perfectly still. "Spies," he earnestly informed them. Chester wasn't sure whether Brian was calling the man or himself a spy. To both Chester's relief and disappointment, the figure left without a trace of green smoke.

Eventually, the McNary brothers either ran out of stink bombs or were caught by one of their many victims. Emma similarly ran out of ants to torture and began to get antsy herself. Brian complained of hunger, and Chester concurred. "Let's head home."

Emma echoed Chester contentedly, drawing out her O. "Hoooome."

The streets were empty as the trio returned. Though the green clouds had not yet dispersed, there was luckily no horrid stench. In the almost eerie silence, Chester could hear a set of footsteps clacking at least a block away. 

The door to the house wouldn't open easily. Something heavy lay before it, blocking the door from swinging inward. 'Mom must have left the vacuum out again,' Chester mentally hypothesized.

What Chester saw next would stay with him for the rest of his life; the haunting image permanently etched into his memory.

Instead of a carelessly placed vacuum laying on the floor, Chester found his mother.

She lay face down, very still. Deathly still. The door pressed against her shoulder as Chester forced it open. Instantly, Chester was on his knees, flipping his mother onto her back. Her eyes were lightly shut and her lips slightly parted. In the crisp pool of sunlight streaming in through the open door, she appeared serene, as though in an enchanted sleep.

Calling did not wake her. Lightly tapping her cheeks produced no effect. Brian tugging harshly at her hair failed to produce the slightest of flinches.

"What's wrong with her?" Brian tangled his fingers through their mother's hair. Her neck tilted toward him. "Make her wake up," he demanded.

"Stop doing that," Chester snapped in return, batting away Brian's prying hands. "She must've fallen and hit her head." As he spoke, Chester frantically inspected the prone figure. There were no marks marring her pale complexion... no bumps hidden beneath the flowing hair... not a speck of blood on the hardwood floor around her.

"She's passed out," Chester corrected himself after the quick assessment.

"She's cold." Brian, ever astute, was undeniably right. Their mother felt unnaturally chilled under Chester's fingers.

"It's okay. Everyone gets cold when they pass out." Though Chester had made up this 'fact' on the spur of the moment, he delivered it with such conviction that he nearly convinced himself.

Suddenly, a foreign instinct kicked in. Calming Brian and keeping this episode from being fodder for the kindergartener's nightmares seemed of monumental importance. Possessing a purpose had the happy side effect of calming himself, as well. "This is just like what you practiced in Kinder Care, remember?" Chester coolly explained. "Now, who do we call when there's an emergency?"

"Nine-one-one."

"Good," Chester praised in a forcedly upbeat voice. Brian beamed, so proud of himself that he momentarily forgot about their mother laying prone across the floor. "I'm going to go call 9-1-1. I'll be right back."

Chester pushed himself up and hurried out of the front entrance. He never made it to the kitchen phone. Halfway down the hall he tripped, landing hard on something both soft and solid. Slowly, he looked down with dawning horror.

Under Chester lay their father.

He was deathly still, unnaturally cold with lips slightly parted; yet there was one difference that separated the two unconscious forms, a small detail that changed everything. Chester's father rested on his back and his eyes stared up at the ceiling. They were open. Wide open. Wide open, and unseeing.

The world tilted dangerously around Chester. He withdrew his hand so quickly from his father's chest that he fell sideways against the wall. The hall seemed to dim and tunnel in alarmingly. 'This is a nightmare,' Chester desperately reassured himself. 'A nightmare. Nothing but some stupid dream.'

"Mommy isn't breathing. Chesser, come make Mommy breathe! Wake her up."

The voice cut through Chester's mental mantra. Light footsteps pattered down the hall. "No," Chester wheezed, suddenly unable to get enough oxygen into his lungs. "Stay still. Don't come in here."

His warning came too late. Emma and Brian had already arrived in the hall. Chester looked up at them, unable to move, unable to think. Emma solemnly gazed upon the scene. She appeared to Chester like a rosy angel, coming to bare away his parents' souls.

It was Brian, however, that forced the hall to jump back into focus. The boy let out a scream. It wasn't a whiney scream or a temper tantrum scream or a shrill play scream. The sound resonating from Brian's open lips belonged not in a middle-class neighborhood, but in a B-rated mad slasher movie--the kind of film Chester wasn't allowed to watch.

Brian's scream, though perfectly capable of undoing a packed audience at the seams, pulled Chester together. He grabbed Emma and Brian by the fronts of their shirts and literally yanked them into the kitchen, slamming the door shut behind them. The phone was clumsy in his grasp. Over Brian's continued lament, he barely heard the lack of dial tone. 

Chester slammed the phone down several times, but to no avail. There was no phone service.

It was a clear Sunday evening. How could the phone lines possibly be down? 'Maybe someone crashed into a telephone poll.' Chester's mind gladly focused on the relatively inconsequential issue. 'Maybe the lines were cut intentionally.' This thought opened a new floodgate of fears: Who would cut the phone lines? The same people who set off the stink bombs, most likely. What if the stink bombs weren't just a prank? Cut phone lines... ugly green smoke... silent neighborhood... What if the 'bombs' were actually poison gas?

Chester swiveled sharply and leapt over to the kitchen window, jamming it open with an excessively forceful slam of his fist. Without bothering to explain, he lifted Emma and Brian by their armpits and set them on the kitchen counter before the fresh breeze. His actions started Brian into silence.

Outside the window came their first break of the evening. A white beater pickup truck pulled into the driveway across the street and Mr. O'Neil dismounted. "Mr. O'Neil," Chester hollered at the top of his lungs. "Help! Help us, please, fast."

Mr. O'Neil looked around, confused. The moment he spotted Chester waving from the open Matthews window, however, he began hurrying to their aid.

He didn't make it far. Before Mr. O'Neil had crossed the street, dark figure appeared from around the corner, sprinting toward them.

The man was wearing a long thin trench coat with the hood pulled low. From his close vantage point, Chester noticed something about the probable bomb-setter that had eluded him at the park: This person's hands were pearly white, not mocha brown like the McNary brothers'. The man waved a wooden stick at Mr. O'Neil. There was a streak of green light, flashing like a brilliant bolt of electricity, and then Mr. O'Neil crumpled to the ground. His eyes stared blankly up at the sky.

Emma watched the scene play out calmly, as though today were nothing more than a live-action Looney Toons rerun. Brian, however, understood what he'd seen. He turned and threw up on the counter.

The hooded head on the street turned directly toward their house. Chester grabbed Emma and Brian off of the counter just as a green light flashed through the window, singeing the opposite wall.

Frantically, Chester fumbled with the overhead cabinet, grabbing the largest knife he could find from the rack hanging inside. A loud crack came from the front hall, as the front door was forced open despite Chester's mother blocking the way. Chester crammed himself into the small gap between the fridge and the door, shoving Emma and Brian behind him with a wide sweep of his arm. 

Footsteps drew near. "St. Michael," Chester prayed earnestly for the first time in his life. "Protect us in battle."

The next moment flashed by so fast that every action seemed to happen at once. Later, Chester himself could not testify as to the order in which things occurred. The door opened. There was a lot of purple light, breezing past Chester's cheek. Emma clung to Brian's legs and began to shriek as only a two-year-old can. Chester swung the butcher knife with all his might, holding nothing back. He felt a resistance, saw a wooden stick fall to the floor accompanied by the bloody stumps of fingers, kicked at the stick and at the fingers and at the man as though his feet had developed minds of their own.

The intruder reached into his trench coat. A thrill of fear ran down Chester's spine. Was there a second electric gun hidden beneath the clothing? Chester slammed himself bodily against the man, bashing the handle of the knife against the cloaked temple. The hood tore back, revealing a head of curly red hair. A dark corked bottle clattered to the floor. 

Chester kicked the bottle away. Something rammed into his head and he fell, twisting sideways, blinking at the stars dancing before him. He opened eyes, unaware that he'd ever closed them, to see Brian grabbing for the bottle. Emma still clung to Brian's side.

Chester knew what the glass container held. There wasn't a trace of doubt in his mind. _Poison gas_. If Brian accidentally uncorked the top, they'd all be dead in a matter of minutes. Chester stretched for the bottle to knock it out of Brian's reach. Their hands clasped the smooth glass at precisely the same second.

There was a whirling sensation. The world blurred and Chester felt himself falling, even though he was already lying on the floor. 'I must've been hit again,' Chester observed detachedly. He couldn't work up the energy to be concerned.

The falling gave way to spinning. Chester imagined himself years younger, playing on a tire swing at the park. He swung in circles, around and around, until the game was no longer fun. He couldn't stop. He began to feel sick, but the spinning didn't end, would never end.…

Chester loosened both hands and forced himself to let go of the tire swing's chains. This miraculously worked. The swing suddenly snapped to a halt and Chester found himself lying on a soft, damp bed. 'Thank God,' he thought. 'The nightmare is over.'


	2. Of Oaks and Owls

The Beginning Hour: Chapter Two

Of Oaks and Owls

Chester lay still, focused on breathing and calming down and, most importantly, overcoming the dull pain in his forehead. "Man," he muttered lowly. The sound of his own voice comforted him. "So much for having no imagination."

He verged on adding a few expletives, but cut himself short. Men were speaking nearby. "Dad?" Chester muzzily interrupted the overheard conversation. "Shut up." Even though he felt sun on his face, he added, "It's too early," for good measure.

His dad instantly stopped talking. In the silence, Chester could hear wind whistling through trees and the gentle rustling of branches. Judging by the damp leaves tickling his neck, he'd fallen asleep in the park.

Wait. If he'd fallen asleep, who was watching Emma and Brian?

Chester's eyes snapped open. He hoped to see his father leaning over him with Emma and Brian playing safely close behind. He expected his eyes to be flooded with blinding light. He dreaded seeing another stink bomb overhead… or were the stink bombs merely part of his elaborate dream?

What he saw wasn't hoped for, or expected, or even dreaded. It was entirely unpredicted, completely out of left field: Chester opened his eyes to find himself surrounded by a crowd of robed men. _Robed_. They looked as though they'd stepped straight out of the Skull and Bones Society.

"What the hell?" one of the men asked. Everyone's eyes were trained on Chester. "Who's the kid? Where's Nott?"

Another man smacked the speaker. Silence resumed. There were heavy footsteps, squishing in the damp ground, and the confusing sea of faces parted before Chester's eyes. Chester remained flat on his back, taking it all in with a slightly furrowed brow.

A tall, thin man casually approached Chester. Chester hardly noticed him. He was too busy wondering why he'd never seen any old, gnarled oak trees in the park before.

The man nudged Chester's face with the toe of a thick army boot, finally gaining Chester's full attention. He was the darkest white man Chester had ever seen: black hair, black clothing, tall black boots, dark brown eyes framed by heavy lashes. Though he certainly couldn't have played quarterback, the man's style gave him the allusion of being physically intimidating.

"Hey," Chester acknowledged the boot. "Have you seen my brother and sister?"

The only response Chester received was a raised eyebrow. 'Now there's a great 1950's actor,' Chester mused: hansom, austere face with expressive eyebrows. Chester could easily picture this man working alongside Audrey Hepburn or Grace Kelly.

Never, of course, would Chester have admitted to his mother that her endless movie marathons were rubbing off on him. Like peas and Frank Sinatra, he occasionally found himself almost enjoying _Sabrina_. People can become accustomed to anything.

"A muggle," the dark man sneered, turning to his companions.

"No," Chester corrected. "A preschooler and a kindergartener. Hey, are you guys putting on a pla—"

Chester finished his question with an involuntary cringe. The man who had first spoken raised a long, polished stick. By now, Chester knew exactly what the wooden electric guns were capable of.

Or wait… that was all a dream, wasn't it? Was he still asleep? Dreaming would certainly explain the ancient oaks.

Either way, the outstretched stick was quickly pressed back down by the dark man. "Turner," he hissed. "Have you no intellect whatsoever? The wards can surely detect any aggressive magic, even outside the apparation barrier. That's your third misjudgment in as many hours. One more and you'll be rewarded." The voice was cold and deadly serious. Chester nearly laughed. If this man wanted to use sarcasm effectively, he'd have to work at cutting down on the clichés.

Chester must have accidentally snickered aloud, because the moment this thought popped into his head, Mr. Dark Humor turned on him sharply. He addressed Chester directly, yet Chester could tell that the words were not meant for him alone. "We'll play with you when we return. A victory celebration."

"No thanks. I don't do dress-up." Chester shrugged to indicate his Greatful Dead tee shirt. "I guess I'm just too heavy metal for drama club."

Chester certainly hadn't intended to mock anyone, but self-deprecating humor is easy to misconstrue. The man obviously made this mistake. He swiftly placed his booted heel directly on the back of Chester's hand, which rested on an unearthed oak root. His lips curled into a sneer and he pressed his foot down.

Chester had been wondering whether or not he could find a pair of boots like that at the Army Surplus Store. The pain caught him entirely by surprise. He screamed aloud and clenched his toes. Never before had Chester experienced pain anything akin to this; he imagined he could feel individual bones breaking.

"My Lord," someone called from a distance. "Avery's arrived. The American aurors have been taken care of. It's past time."

The dark man looked Chester directly in the eye and twisted his heel, obviously enjoying Chester's unabashed yelp. He then straightened and turned in one fluid movement, shooting a streak of light over his shoulder. The light missed Chester by inches as he curled onto his side, folding his knees over his burning hand.

The world went dark. This was a first for Chester: He'd never passed out from pain before. Later, he'd be quite thankful none of the robed men stuck around long enough to see his girly swoon.

O O O

Chester sat up and opened his eyes. As if by magic, he wasn't in the park any more. Old oak trees and elegant snow-white birches extended endlessly in all directions. There was an unnatural lack of undergrowth and an equally unnatural abundance of large boulders.

Chester slowly pushed himself to his feet with his good hand. His entire right arm throbbed, despite the injury being solely contained in his palm. He hesitated before inspecting the damage, half afraid that he'd find the hand flattened like a pancake. The back and palm were well on their way to developing bruises, but the injury looked otherwise unimpressive. Chester was almost disappointed; if he had to be in pain, he at least wanted a war wound to show for it.

Chester attempted to flex his fingers and was rewarded by an uncomfortable jolt. He wasn't dreaming, then. Didn't people always say, 'Pinch me, please,' when things got unbelievable? Well, this time no pinching was necessary.

Perhaps he was in heaven. The forest rose majestically around him. A crisp breeze ruffled his hair. "God?" he tentative called.

Then he remembered: You don't feel pain in heaven. Otherwise, what would be the point of behaving? 'Could this be Purgatory?' he wondered. 'Does the church even endorse Purgatory anymore?'

As Chester stood vainly attempting to puzzle out where the heck he'd landed, a soft whimpering arose, echoing around him. "Who's there?" Chester asked the trees. Does God cry?

God didn't respond. Instead, a head emerged from behind a boulder to Chester's left. 'Chesser?' the head tentatively whispered.

"Brian?" Chester spun on his heel. "Oh my God, you can't be dead, too. Mom's gonna kill me when she finds out." Chester paused a moment to give the matter rational thought. "What'd you ever do to deserve Purgatory?"

Brian's whimpering escalated, until he was crying in earnest. He obviously hadn't taken in a word Chester said. "I thought you were dead, Chesser," he tearfully babbled between gasping gulps of air. "You screamed. I thought those bad men had killed you. I thought you were gone and I was all alone."

Chester had to restrain from answering, 'Yeah, me too.' Instead, he shook his head encouragingly and joined Brian behind the boulder. Walking did nothing for the pain in his hand.

The odor assaulted him first: behind the boulder, it smelled as though someone had been sick. Then he saw the clear glass bottle laying on the ground and the dark stain on Brian's pants, and everything came crashing down around him.

Chester wasn't sleeping. None of this had been a dream. He wasn't in Heaven. He wasn't in Purgatory. He wasn't even dead.

But his parents were.

They were heaven and they were in Purgatory and they were sleeping, never to be awoken, no matter how hard Chester shook them or Brian pulled their hair.

Chester fell to his knees before Brian. He grabbed his brother tightly in both arms, rocking and sobbing from a pain infinitely worse than the one radiating from his hand.

The usual order of emotions reversed. As Chester broke down, Brian calmed. After a few minutes (or a few hours, neither could be sure), Chester became aware of an incessant murmur pouring out of Brian: "I w-want Mom and Dad. I want Emma. Mr. O'Neil. Mom and Emma and Dad. I want Dad. Make Mom and Emma wake up. I want my mom and dad."

"No," Chester shakily shushed Brian. He pulled Brian away from his chest, but Brian immediately latched back on, burying his head in Chester's shoulder. "No, I can't wake them up. Not anymore."

"You have to." Brian pounded Chester's arm twice with his fist before blindly grabbing a handful of his brother's shaggy hair. "Please. I t-tried, and I couldn't. Mom and Emma. Just wake them up a little, please, just wake them up."

"Mom and Emma?" Chester pulled Brian back again, rougher than before. "Mom and _Emma_," he repeated. "Where's Emma?"

Brian tried to curl up against Chester, but this time Chester resisted. He mercilessly held Brian at arm's length. 'I won't shake him,' he mentally promised, and then he shook Brian hard. "Where's Emma?"

Brian sunk to the ground, sobbing. He waveringly pointed to his right. "In the rock."

Chester didn't want to look. He truly didn't. But if Chester chickened out now, what would become of her? Emma was his sister, and no matter how devastated and frightened Chester might have been, he couldn't abandon her.

A small body lay half hidden in a crevasse of the rock. At one point—or probably many points—water had rained down into the crack and frozen, expanding to leave jagged gapping wounds in its wake. Emma's Cinderella princess dress had caught on the sharp edge and torn. Like their mother's, her face pointed downward, concealed under locks of flowing hair.

Chester had seen things on T.V. He'd watched R rated movies behind his parents' backs. He'd heard music lyrics that technically weren't allowed in school. He'd played video games where he'd heartlessly (even enthusiastically) inflicted virtual damage. He'd discovered his parents' bodies and witnessed a murder. Adults say violence desensitizes kids, and they very well may be right; but nothing, _nothing_ could ever have prepared Chester for this.

A breeze rose up. The yellow dress slightly lifted and fell, shimmering under the clear light. Chester's mind went darkly blank. For the first and only time in his remembrance, he felt a hollow yet heart-stopping apathy toward life.

The breeze died down. For a second barely perceivable time, the dress shifted. A dam broke within Chester and he threw himself at his sister, laughing in a voice hardly his own. Emma was breathing. Emma was _alive_.

She'd been knocked unconscious against the rock. The left side of her baby-round face bore a bruise of violent purple. Though her eyes were currently shut, it was clear that the left one would not be opening any time soon. Despite the head injury and torn dress, though, her breathing appeared to be regular and strong.

The moment Brian understood the implications of Chester's laugh, he clutched desperately at Stella's curls. Chester didn't bother to untangle the yanking fingers; after all, he too felt an overwhelming urge to touch her face and hands and rising chest.

O O O

The three children hid behind a boulder until the sun had sunk low in the sky. When it became abundantly clear that no one was coming to collect them, Chester slowly stood with a limp Emma in his arms. The sun was blinding bright, dying with a flourish that lit up the oak leaves like blazing green candles. Long, parallel prison-bar shadows spread across the forest floor.

Brian looped his hand under Chester's belt. "Are we going home?"

"Yes," Chester said. Then he set off into an unfamiliar forest with identical trees in a randomly selected direction. Sure, they'd head straight home.

As Chester walked, he mentally tallied all he knew: Men in robes had attacked his neighborhood with electric guns. He'd been knocked unconscious. The men had kidnapped him, Emma, and Brain only to abandon them in a secluded forest. One of the men made reference to returning.

Were these people members of a cult? Of a bizarre satanic clan? Did they intend hold Chester ransom for money or sacrifice him to woodland spirits?

There would be a search party. Chester kept his ears tuned for voices calling their names. By the rough position of the sun, Chester hadn't been unconscious for long. They couldn't be far from home.

Thinking of home brought Chester's parents to his mind. He cried silently as he walked. The tears wouldn't stop, even when an owl swooped past and when Emma stirred. Chester wondered whether the crying would ever end. It seemed unlikely.

As the night drew near, more owls awoke. They flew low, daringly low, at times diving mere feet from Chester as though to say, 'You don't scare me.' Their wings beat heavily in the air and they called to one another with long, echoing hoots.

"These birds aren't very good hunters," Brain shakily declared. Chester hadn't been the only one crying silently. "They're too loud. All the mice are gonna be scared away."

"Good. I'm glad." Chester set his hand on Brian's head, but immediately lifted it off again as his palm throbbed. To compensate, he tilted his head back and shouted, "Run, mice, run."

An owl screeched indignantly and flew directly in front of their faces. Brian giggled. "They're like the bats we saw at Silver Lake with Daddy," he observed with delight. Then, suddenly, Brian stiffened and the hold on Chester's belt tightened. Neither boy said another word.

The sun set. Though this was quite inevitable, Chester had half expected the night to never come. Wishful thinking. A gray dusk settled over the forest, hovering densely like fog near the bases of the trees.

In fifth grade, Chester's teacher read his class _The Hatchet_. In _The Hatchet_, a boy his own age became stranded in a secluded forest. So far as Chester could remember, the boy forged a shelter, secured several food sources, and built a campfire from scratch. Within weeks, he'd been hunting wild chickens. The boy even started a modest fish reservoir.

The story had seemed plausible at the time. Chester had even thought up ways he'd improve upon the boy's situation.

Now the tables had turned and Chester found himself entirely disillusioned. There wasn't an inch of shelter so far as the eye could see: no underbrush, no low-hanging branches, boulders left miles behind. There weren't clumps of berries hiding chickens. Fire seemed like a feat for the gods. Chester was more concerned about locating water than keeping fish fresh.

Chester refused to claim defeat until the dark nipped at their heels. Finally, he selected a giant oak and sat heavily down on its roots, leaning back against the rough bark. Brian released Chester's belt and continued standing, peering at him through a misty veil. "What're you doin'?"

"Resting." He'd thought that much was obvious. "Emma's heavy."

Brian briefly considered Emma before joining Chester. He leaned over and rubbed dirt off the toes of his All-Star Converse high tops. "Okay," Brian announced after several minutes. "Let's go."

Chester ignored Brian. He let his head fall back against the tree and half-shut his eyes. Brian didn't approve of his reaction. The preschooler prodded Chester's shoulder and whined, "Come on, I wanna get home before it gets dark. I don't like the dark."

Chester passively allowed Brian to tug on his arm twice before grabbing the kid's shirt and pulling Brian down beside him. "Quit that," he commanded irritably. He was beginning to feel frightened again, and the sensation did nothing for his temper. "We're sleeping here tonight."

Brian immediately leapt back up. "No." He shook his head violently. "I'm hungry and I want to go home." It was a testament to Brian's resoluteness that he clearly enunciated every word.

"Well, we don't have much of a choice, do we?" Chester snapped in return. If felt as though the pain in his hand and the aching of his arms were feeding off one another in a vicious upward cycle.

Brian took a quick glance around. Chester could see the wheels turning in his brother's head; the kid was afraid to stay in the woods but terrified to wander off alone. Finally, Brian weakly insisted, "I'm not tired. I can't sleep without my Spiderman nightlight."

Chester wasn't a fool. He knew that it wasn't the nightlight Brian missed.

As of his 'I'm not tired' assertion, that would be Pinocchio speaking. Chester figured Brian was tired probably beyond exhausted. It had been a long day—the longest of their lives, with miles of walking to boot. "Fine," he relented. "Just take a quick nap with me. Then we'll finish going home."

Brian was either gullible or even more exhausted than Chester had originally conjectured. He curled up next to Chester without a trace of a fight. Within minutes, Brian's hitching breath evened out and tears stopped dripping onto Chester's bare arm. Brian was asleep.

Chester, however, didn't catch a wink. Dark settled over the woods. Soon he couldn't see his own hand held in front of his face.

Noises Chester hadn't heard during the day arose from the blackness. Breathing… was that Brian? Rustling… could that be the owls, populating these woods like rabbits? At one point, Chester could have sworn he heard the crunching of heavy padded feet on fallen leaves. He literally stopped breathing, his heart pounding in his chest.

'If I die now,' Chester attempted to reassure himself, 'I'll get to see Mom and Dad.'

The thought did nothing beyond causing his heart to ache as it pounded. Chester wanted his mom and dad _and_ wanted to live. The tears, which had taken hours to quench, started afresh. 'St. Michael, the Archangel' he mentally chanted. He didn't know for what exact his was praying. Safety? His parents? Reassurance that a miracle would occur and everything might turn out all right? Each wish seemed more improbable than the last, so he prayed all the harder. 'Defend us in battle. Be our protection…'

Slowly, the stars rose in the sky over Chester's head. They weren't city stars, few and far between… no; these stars formed a veritable sea, saturating the sky like a thick dusting of powdered sugar. Chester leaned back against the oak and allowed them to burn thousands of tiny holes into his vision. He now understood the concept of a 'milky way'.

With the stars came a nearly full moon. Distinct white beams shone through the trees. Chester's surroundings became visible again, and he found himself alone with the owls. Their presence soothed him. It occurred to Chester that his father would have loved to see the bright sunlight and mis-placed boulders and gnarled trees with lean shadows and the endless array of stars he'd experienced today. Then Chester, hardly for the hundredth time, quietly grieved.


	3. Of Creeks and Valleys

Chapter Three: Of Creeks and Valleys

"Chesser."

Someone shook Chester's shoulder, pulling him from sleep. A bird twittered cheerfully overhead. Chester blinked groggily several times before his eyes remained open. It had been a long, uncomfortable night. His neck ached and his spine protested against any movement.

Brian was hunkered down next to Chester, peering into a small rat hole at the base of a tree. "You missed it," he pouted. "I saw a fairy."

"Fairy," a high, listless voice repeated.

Chester sat up quickly, despite a sudden pressure in his lower back. Emma shifted her weight in his lap. Her head no longer lay limply against his shoulder. "You're awake," Chester cried.

Emma nodded stiffly, eyes never veering from the hole. Relief, so thrilling that it might easily have been mistaken for excitement, bubbled up in Chester's chest. He planted a kiss in Emma's matted hair. He'd never actually kissed his sister before—or anyone beyond his parents, for that matter. Emma appeared wholly unaffected by his outburst.

Brian flopped back down next to Chester. "Emma saw it, too." His voice was defensive, despite Chester's lack of expressed doubt.

"Oh," Chester neutrally replied. Brian usually wasn't the imaginary-friends type, but stranger coping mechanisms have been known. After all, didn't the _Sherlock Holms_ author start believing in fairies after losing a son? 'At least,' Chester reassured himself, 'Brian isn't the only one.'

"It was a boy fairy." Give Brian an inch of encouragement and he'd stretch it a mile. "You know how I could tell?"

Chester carefully inspected Emma's face. The bruise was darker than yesterday and, as predicted, her left eye had swollen shut. He wasn't truly concerned, however, until she sluggishly reached up to scrub her eyes and missed her face on the first attempt.

Brian continued undeterred. "Because he was green and brown. Boy colors!"

Chester pulled back Emma's ripped dress to double-check that she hadn't injured her arm or side. The skin was smooth and flawless. Finally, he noticed Brian staring at him expectantly. "Brown and green," he obediently responded. "I didn't know fairies come in those colors."

One sentence was all Brian required. "Only boy fairies," he lectured, now clearly considering himself an expert. "Fat boy fairies with long hair."

"Fat with long hair, huh?" This conversation was beginning to amuse Chester. "Must have been a middle-aged hippy fairy."

Brian completely missed Chester's sarcastic undertone. "Is that what they're called? Hippy fairies?"

"Only the ones in California."

"But we aren't in California." Brian paused and the corners of his lips turned down. "You're teasing me, aren't you? Emma saw it, too."

Chester started to grin before realizing that there really wasn't anything to smile about. He frowned instead and stood. Emma felt heavier today than she had the evening before. "Shall we start?"

Brian stole one last glance at the rat hole before grabbing Chester's belt like a leash, signaling that he was good to go.

Chester hesitated before setting out. Though each individual oak and birch sported its own unique tangle of branches and elegant pose, their sheer number made them very poor landmarks. Suddenly an unhappy thought occurred to Chester: yesterday, in his desperation to put distance between himself and the robed psychos, he'd walked completely at random. He hadn't pegged the forest as large enough for this to be problematic—especially not given its suburban location. Now he wondered whether he shouldn't have 'planted', hugged a tree, and waited patiently for the rescue crew.

Brian's voice broke Chester from his reverie. "I'm hungry. Can we make some macaroni and cheese when we get home? The _Dino Hunt_ kind?"

"Sure." Chester set off. As sickening as the thought may be, Chester had to acknowledge the fact that his parents wouldn't be searching for them. What if nobody came? It would be better, he decided, to get further lost than starve to death doing nothing.

This time, however, Chester made sure to keep the rising sun at his right. Good things come to people who head north.

Brian had lost his zombie-like silence of the day before. The journey soon became an endless string of car games. He named his favorite trees after characters from _Thomas the Train Engine_. Chester wasn't sure what features made specific trees stand out to Brian; in his eyes, they were all identical.

At Brian's insistence, the two brothers walked backwards in intervals. "This way Big Foot can't track us," he explained. Chester gave a mental sigh of relief: Brian, it seemed, had suddenly entered an imagination-rich phase. This was definitely an improvement upon losing the ability to distinguish fairy tales from reality, which had been Chester's initial prognosis.

"I'm blind," Brian loudly declared.

"Shhhh," Chester admonished him. Emma had laid her head down on Chester's shoulder and closed her eyes, lolled by the gentle rocking of his stride. She appeared to be asleep, rather than unconscious. Chester wanted her to stay that way.

"You're me seeing-eye dog." Brian stiffed the arm that connected him to Chester's belt. "You've got to lead me."

"Yeah, I'll lead you." Chester dropped his voice an octave and he darkly amended, "Right off a cliff, I'll lead you."

Brian laughed. The light and happy sound filled Chester with guilt. He shouldn't be making Brian laugh, not after what happened the day before. Not with their parents dead.

'Don't cry,' he mentally pleaded with himself.

Chester felt a pull on his belt. He turned, tightening his lips against an involuntary tremor. Brian's arm had gone lax and his eyes were trained on Chester's face. The boy looked like a forlorn puppy trailing behind its owner.

Chester forced a smile and straightened his shoulders. Emma gave a sigh of protest. "I thought you said you're blind." The falsely stern tone was offset by an equally false grin. "For a blind person, you can see awfully well, don'cha think?"

Brian perked up immediately and slapped his free hand over his eyes. "I can't hear, either," he cheerfully informed Chester as though deafness was a fun and enjoyable disability to have. With minimal effort, Chester had molded Brian's mood back into its former state. The level of control he'd exerted shocked Chester out of his mental funk.

"I'm like Helen Keller," Brian prattled innocently, completely unaware that he'd just been manipulated twice. "You have to lead me. Tell me if I'm going to run into anything."

Chester shrugged to the trees. "How will you hear me, then?"

"I can't hear you," was the sing-songy reply.

O O O

It was nearly noon before Chester encountered any sign of the endless forest's end. The first change he noticed was the ground cover.

By then, the sun had risen high in the sky and Chester's shadow had shrunken to a life-sized height. Chester was entertaining Brian with full-body shadow puppets in an attempt to keep the kid's mind off his empty stomach. "Look," Chester directed Brian's attention. He tilted his head to the right and hiked Emma up higher in his arms. "I have two heads and no arms."

Brian giggled. To a five-year-old, there's nothing funnier than fake multiple or missing body parts.

Spurred on by his success, Chester bent his head over Emma's still-slumbering form. The result was a formless shadow. "I'm biting Emma's neck," he clarified. The puzzled expression on Brian's face gave way to delight. "I'm Dracula."

"Me too," Brian trilled, flapping his arms like wings. "I'm a flying Dracula."

Chester, his head still bent toward the ground, suddenly realized two things: Firstly, Brain didn't know who Dracula was; and secondly, dried weeds were clustered around the base of the nearest tree.

The weeds were clearly long dead. Their color had faded to a shade slightly sicklier than that of dust. The stems appeared so frail that Chester wondered how they could still be holding the brown, shriveled dandelion heads aloft. Like misplaced peaks of sand, a single touch or breath of wind would surely have sent them crumbling.

Chester went a few paces out of his way to tread on the weeds. They gave way instantly under his feet. The first step in their journey to becoming soil had been officially completed. The crunch was satisfying.

It wasn't until five minutes later, when green grass began to appear, that Chester wondered why the forest floor behind him had been devoid of life. It made little difference. Green grass in the middle of summer with no sprinklers around meant only one thing: there must be a natural source of water nearby—and right then, water sounded _very_ appealing.

The sound preceded the creek. It took nearly half an hour for Chester to track down the origin of the gentle gurgling. Toward the end of his hunt, he threw his head-only-north plan to the wind. Though the day wasn't hot and they hadn't been stranded long, Chester felt unquenchably thirsty.

Brian was the one who finally located the illusive water. He wandered too far ahead, searching for fairies, and suddenly disappeared from sight. Two days ago, Chester would have been vaguely surprised by Brian's invisibility act. Today, however, wasn't two days ago. A panic filled Chester's chest and he sprinted toward where he'd last seen Brian. High strands of grass grabbed at his legs, sacrificing themselves to impede his movement.

Suddenly, the thick sea of knee-high grass came to an abrupt halt. Muddy banks fell sharply down two or three feet, cradling their precious cargo, before rising up again and returning to the overgrown lawn as though there'd been no detour at all. From mere meters away, the break in lilacs would have been undetectable.

Brian stood silently in the center of the creek, water lapping at his knees, clearly in awe of his find. "Chesser." He squinted up against the glaring sun. "It's cold." Then Brian shivered, grinned, and dunked himself in quick succession.

"Cold," a voice murmured, repeating Brian's declaration. Emma had awoken from her listless stupor. Her good eye visibly followed the dancing water, trailing off into the distance. Chester hadn't seen her vision focus since she'd taken the hit to her head. A weight he hadn't noticed until now lifted from his shoulders.

Chester slid down the creek bank, jostling his charge like the ravine jostling the delicate stream. The water was exactly as Brian had described: cold and irresistible. As Chester washed himself, he felt the ache in his back and arms ebb away. The icy flow numbed the back of his hand. When Chester splashed water onto Emma's face, she leaned into the touch.

"We should go kayaking down here," Brian suggested as he cupped his hands to drink from the water.

The creek ravine was less than five feet across, far too narrow for a set of kayaks, but Chester enthusiastically agreed. For the first time in nearly a day, he didn't feel like crying. An image of his father in a kayak overlaid the pattern of dappled sunlight, which filtered through oak leaves onto Brian's auburn hair. "Yeah. Kayaking."

"But not before macaroni and cheese."

"The stream leads north." When Brian glanced back over his shoulder at Chester, bewildered, Chester found himself densely elaborating, "There's _Dino Hunt_ macaroni and cheese up north."

"You're goofy," Brian informed Chester with a shake of his head. He then turned and headed down the creek, reaching out his hand to brush some lilacs tumbling over the bank as he passed.

O O O

The good mood stemming from their find didn't last nearly as long as Chester would have liked. Within half an hour, Brian's pace had slowed. "I'm tired," the five-year-old complained at regular intervals. To keep from being too predictable, the "I'm tired" was occasionally followed with "and hungry" or "and my legs hurt" or "and I'm missing _Show and Tell_ at Kinder Care. I was gonna bring in my dinosaur collection." Brian only owned two model dinosaurs—one of which had gone missing weeks ago.

Chester stood in silent awe that, after the events of yesterday, Brian could be upset over missing _Show and Tell_. He wondered how well Brian truly understood the seriousness of what had occurred. Several times, when Brian had wandered ahead (but not too far ahead—Chester learned his lessons well), Chester felt as though crying or screaming might sooth the dark thoughts swirling around his head. Only focusing on Emma and the ever-thickening lilac beds kept him from going temporarily insane.

As they passed another bend in the stream, Brian plopped himself heavily down on the edge of the bank. "I'm tired," he dramatically sighed.

"You think _you're_ tired," Chester snapped in return. He didn't bother pausing to wait for Brian. "I'm the one who's been carrying Emma all day. And all yesterday. I think my arms are permanently stuck in this position."

Despite being tired, Brian kicked his heels forcefully against the side of the bank. "It's too much uphill."

"We're not going uphill," Chester called back over his shoulder. "Water can't run upwards."

However, as they walked further Chester found himself eating his own words. The stream was, indeed, heading uphill. Gradually, the ground became steeper—by no means steep enough as to be insurmountable, but certainly steep enough to give Chester a workout over time.

"It must be the water pressure," Chester found himself explaining to Brian. "The water has enough momentum to push itself up the slope."

The water moved slowly, taking its time to pause at waist-deep picturesque swimming holes. Brian either didn't notice or didn't mind the contradiction. "I'm going to race that stick," he declared, but he ended up sitting down for another break instead.

"Come on," Chester urged. Fatigue and hunger were beginning to show on Brian's face. Each time Brian sat down, Chester felt a tug of urgency pulling him onward. "We're almost to the top," he truthfully coaxed. "Then it will be downhill."

Brian stood reluctantly, trotting a few paces to catch up. Emma turned to face Brian, still leaning heavily on Chester's chest, and held out a hand. "Stick?" she asked.

"Nah." Brian shook his head and pushed Emma's hand back down. "It's too far ahead. It won."

The stick did indeed win. It had already mounted the hill and dropped off into the unknown, beyond an ever-approaching grassy bluff. The top of the hill cut the world into two halves: one an endless blue, the other a rippling green and gold. An old oak straddled the divide, like a staple holding together two repelling forces. Yet another photographic moment was added Chester's growing list.

It took Chester and Brian a good deal longer to reach the tree than Chester had anticipated. With a point of comparison to give Chester some bearing, he realized for the first time how agonizingly slow their pace had become. They'd reached the point of no return: to backtrack would take a lifetime.

At the ridge, however, points of no return ceased to matter.

The land dropped out from under them. Though the hill had been sloping gently up one side, it fell sharply on the other. Chester found himself standing on the brink of a miles-wide basin, a deep valley cupped between forested hills and rocky mountains. In the center of the basin floor lay a mammoth lake—by far the largest and bluest lake Chester had ever laid eyes on. It reflected the towering mountain peaks like a giant looking glass. To the left of the lake, the mountainside had been partially leveled and was littered by old stone ruins. Circling up past the ruins, on the opposite side of the lake from Chester, ran a long winding railroad track.

Chester blinked. He looked behind him and saw a bare stretch of trees and tall grass. He looked forward and saw a scene from _National Geographic_ meets _Travel Magazine_. The contrast was so sharp, so unexpected, so visually stunning that it knocked Chester breathless and he was forced to lean back against the tree. The tree didn't seem to mind.

Brian took the new development in stride. Finding a hidden valley, it seemed, was nothing near as exciting as finding a hidden stream.

Or a hidden railroad.

"It's a train track," was the first observation Brian made. "Like on Thomas the Train Engine, except not as shiny, and there aren't any train houses."

Wait. Chester straightened, dizziness forgotten. "A train track…"

'Thank god,' he mentally breathed. 'We're saved.' Then he hiked Emma further up in his arms, cuffed Brian from behind, and strode purposefully down the grassy hill. "Let's get going. We've got a train to catch."

Walking downhill after an upward hike works magic. Brian ceased to require tri-hourly breaks. He raced sticks down the stream and picked lilacs for Emma, insisting that Chester plant them in her hair. He'd probably seen girls with flower crowns on television, because Brian would never have made an association between lilacs and curls on his own. The flowers refused to stay put, but Emma giggled when they fell, making the effort worthwhile.

As they descended the hill, the forest grew denser. The repertoire of undergrowth expanded to include scraggly bushes, followed by prickly vines (without blackberries; Brian's disappointment knew no bounds), broad-leafed clovers, vine maples, and finally sprawling ferns. The trees grouped closer together. Sunlight was scarcer, but grew stronger to compensate. For the first time, just after Chester had finally found a destination to head for, he began to truly fear becoming lost.

With dropping elevation, the creek became deeper. Several small streams joined from either side, and soon the water was rushing fast and strong. A few logs had fallen across the riverbed and boulders lined the sides, lending the water a powerful appearance. By the time they'd reached the valley floor, Chester had increased his following distance from the river and insisted that Brian stay a safer distance from the steep banks.

As the ground leveled out, night began to set in. Like the day before, fog rose from the ground and the light became sharper before slowly dimming. This evening felt colder than the previous one; but then again, the sensation may have merely been a reflection of Chester's increasingly critical state of mind.

As they walked on, painstakingly picking their way through brush and over logs, a quiet settled over the small party. Emma fell asleep on Chester's shoulder. Her breath tickled Chester's neck. Chester's arms began to ache again, after having spent the greater part of the day blessedly numb.

Brian, too, noticed the silence. "There aren't any owls," he observed, pulling himself up on a large log with both hands. "Are they sleeping tonight?"

Chester peered into the dusk. Trees loomed above him, filling the sky. They appeared mammoth enough to house countless owls. "Maybe the owls are just being really quiet," he offered. "I bet there's a lot better hunting here."

Brian mulled this thought over in his head as he slid down the side of the log. "I don't want them to hunt," he finally replied. "I don't want the mice to get hurt."

"The owls have to eat something," Chester reasoned. "They'll die if they don't eat."

This clearly wasn't the correct response for the situation. Brian halted. Chester took several steps before noticing that he was no longer being followed. He turned and waited for Brian to catch up, but Brian continued standing still, tracing patterns in the bark of a tree and refusing to look at his brother. In the shadows of the giant trees, Brian appeared very small and vulnerable.

"Come on," Chester whispered. He wasn't entirely sure why he was whispering. He retraced his steps to Brian's side. "Let's get to the lake before dark. I'll bet there will be bats there. And stars on the lake. That sounds cool, huh?"

Brian nodded at the tree, his back to Chester. Then he leaned closer to the tree. The small movement indicated to Chester that Brian hadn't actually been listening to a word he'd said. "I don't want the owls to kill the mice." The soft voice cracked. "Can't they just eat berries?"

"Brian," Chester murmured. Suddenly the night seemed much darker, and the forest much wilder. "They're in heaven." Brian turned from the tree and buried himself in Chester's baggy shirt. "They're in heaven," Chester repeated. "They're smiling down at us."

Chester never doubted the existence of God. Never, that is, until then. The thought of his parents in heaven comforted him so deeply that he felt an urgent desire to instill the coping mechanism in Brian as well.

Heaven, as a coping mechanism?

A chill ran down Chester's spine. "You've got to believe me." Brian's shoulders shook, but Chester could tell that he wasn't crying. "If you don't, you'll go nuts. I swear to God—to _God_, Brian—that they're in heaven."

Chester wanted believe himself, but the more he tried, the emptier his chest felt.

Emma's breath tickled his neck. Brian's hand looped under his belt. They walked on, following the pounding river, until at last the trees parted to reveal a wide expanse of milky stars and lapping water.

Chester coaxed Emma awake. He didn't want her to miss this bright, moonlit enclave fending off the encroaching darkness. She would always remember the wide circle of Christmas lights above and below, reflecting off one another with perfect clarity until she couldn't tell up from down, ground from sky, heaven from earth. She'd remember. He'd make sure of it.

Next chapter: Chester is found, but not by the rescue crew he'd anticipated.


	4. Of Deer and Castles

A soft wind rustled Stella's dress against Chester's bare arm.

Chester stirred. He turned his head restlessly, searching for a soft patch of bark. Stella lay heavily against his chest, and he could feel her body shift slightly with each breath he took.

The muted clattering of leave-padded branches sounded overhead. Chester felt himself begin to drift off, but a chilly wind brought him again back before he could chase down sleep. His left arm felt uncomfortably numb. For a moment, Chester muzzily wondered whether the sensation was a consequence of two days spent toddler hauling; but then Brian snored softly near Chester's ear, and he noticed a weight pinning his arm against the tree.

Brian's snore was echoed by a low breathy snort. The rustling of the trees raised an octave, but didn't drown out a quiet padding from somewhere close by. Chester's eyes slowly blinked open.

As Chester looked up, he froze. His focus locked onto a pair of large brown eyes staring directly at him. A tall buck stood before him, peering at Chester through a thin veil of gray early-morning mist.

Stunning antlers rose from behind the buck's alert ears. The antlers tilted slightly as the buck cocked his head in an expressive gesture of puppy-like confusion.

Chester had seen deer before: He'd been camping. He'd watched long, drolly-narrated nature videos against his will. He'd helped erect wire fences at Bill McNarys' aunt's farmhouse, only to watch them get effortlessly trampled hours later.

Regardless, he'd honestly never understood the big deal about deer. Why plaster their pictures on shiny wall hangings with Bible verses? Why mount their heads over ski resort fireplaces? Why watch Bambi unless forced to by your five-year-old brother? Why were so many people obsessed with deer?

Seeing this regal beast, standing yards from Chester without a trace of fear, bright eyes taking in every detail, muscles clearly visible under a sleek coat, branching antlers pointing toward the heavens… suddenly Chester got it.

"Are you a sign? A good one?"

The buck snorted. Mist curled up around its chest. Chester chuckled and unsuccessfully attempted to scratch his right heel with the toe of his left shoe. When the buck didn't startle or bolt, Chester amicably continued the one-way conversation: "You'd better be a good sign, 'cause we've already ran out of bad luck. A bad omen would be pretty unoriginal right now. No one likes a copy-cat."

Stella stirred. Chester stroked her curls with his free hand, and she instantly relaxed. The buck stood perfectly still, as though transfixed. "You're pretty daring," Chester informed him. "Maybe you'll be trusting enough to let me catch you. Steak for breakfast. It isn't macaroni and cheese, but it'll do."

At this, the buck took a wary step backward. Chester suppressed a laugh. "Get out of here," he said instead. "I don't want Brian to see you and start obsessively searching for Santa. The fairy thing is bad enough."

The buck let out yet another snort, shook his antlers, and turned to trot away. The clip-clop of his hooves reminded Chester of the horses on Mrs. McNary's farm. For a moment, before disappearing into the underbrush, the buck was silhouetted against the cold, blue waters of the lake. Chester felt an unjustified sense of loss. He shivered, carefully re-positioned Stella, and fell back into a restless sleep.

Loud thrashing woke Chester before he'd rested long. This time, Chester's eyes snapped open instead of slowly blinking. Brian was already awake, scrambling to his feet beside Chester. "I heard voices," he whispered with clearly visible anticipation. Chester didn't know if his expression was one of excitement or fear.

"It's just a deer," Chester muttered, grabbing Brian's arm to keep him from wandering.

As soon as he'd spoken, however, Chester was proven wrong. A heavily accented voice sounded over the crunching of approaching footsteps: "I swear. They were around here somewhere."

"See?" Brian hissed, but he stopped tugging against Chester's hold. Chester also froze, his heart pounding. He bolted up so suddenly that Emma slid off his lap and fell with a cry onto the dewy ground.

At Stella's cry, the trashing halted. A thrill of fear that they'd frightened away their possible saviors caused Chester to throw caution to the wind. "Hey," Chester shouted. "Hey! Who's there?"

'Please,' he mentally added, 'no psychos.'

Chester grabbed up Stella and stumbled toward the sound of loud rustling. He no longer felt cold and hungry, but an unanticipated weakness stole his coordination. Brian grabbed onto his belt from behind, throwing him off balance and causing him to fall heavily against a large oak.

"Where are you?" a second voice called, accent slightly lower than the last's. The question, however, hardly required an answer. As soon as the person had spoken, two boys broke through a bank of bushes and stopped short yards from Chester's right side.

The boys were much older than Chester—seventeen or eighteen, nearly men. They looked remarkable similar: both were tall with dark shaggy hair, both had paper-white skin, both wore jeans and hooded sweaters. Were it not for one boy's wide shoulders and the other's ridiculously thick glasses, Chester would have pegged them for twins.

For a split second, a wave of relief tingled down Chester's spine, but the warm feeling didn't last long. Brian let out a choking sob and pressed himself into Chester's shirt, shaking hard enough for Chester to easily feel the vibrations against his back.

Then Chester saw it: a thin polished stick, held tightly in the fist of the broad-shouldered boy. Chester took a step backward, clutching Emma to his chest. He tripped over Brian and stumbled slightly, grabbed Brian's upper arm with his free hand, and bolted.

Chester's desperate flight lasted only a few seconds. It isn't easy to run with one child in your arms and another dragging behind you. A hand too large to belong to Brian grabbed Chester's shoulder from behind. The bottom dropped out of Chester's stomach and he realized, without coming to terms with the realization, that he was about to die.

Chester swiveled on his heel, yanking Brian around behind him. "Don't touch me," he shouted hysterically. "DON'T TOUCH ME!"

The boy with glasses released Chester and dropped back a step, holding up both hands with feigned innocence. "Calm down," he hastily retreated. "We aren't going to hurt you."

Chester wasn't fooled. "I know what those are," he hollered, waving wildly at the broad-shouldered boy who stood several steps behind them. "I know what those guns do. You're one of the psychos."

"Should I stun them?" The broad-shouldered boy raised the stick and pointed it directly at Chester.

Panic flooded Chester's chest. He turned his back, shielding Emma. On the ground before him lay several thick sticks, moss covered and half-rotted. Without thinking twice, more out of fear and impulse than bravery, Chester dropped Stella onto the ground and grabbed one of the sticks with both hands, wielding it like a sword. In one movement, he turned and slammed the stick against the nearest boy's head.

The soft stick broke. Though the boy's glasses were knocked off his face, he barely faltered. "Don't stun them," he instructed his partner, scanning the ground with squinted eyes and holding up one arm protectively. "They're muggles."

Muggles. Chester had heard that word before. He smashed the remains of his stick against the back of the boy's head just as the boy bent down to retrieve the glasses. The boy went down on one knee, and Chester raised the blunt end of the stick high.

Suddenly, the boy grabbed Chester's legs and tackled him from down low, forcing him to the ground. Chester kicked his legs as hard as he could, pounding and scratching mercilessly. "Let me go," he harshly sobbed. "Just leave us alone."

The boy was breathing hard, grunting as a few of Chester's punches made contact. "A little help here, please," he gasped over his shoulder.

The spectator, however, held back. "I'm not touching them. They're muggles."

There was a thud and a sharp intake of breath. Brian had hurtled himself against Chester's attacker. Chester tried to push Brian clear of the fray, but his moment of distraction was taken advantage of and Chester found himself flat on his stomach, hands held behind his back in a vice-like grip. "LEMME GO," he angrily screamed through a mouthful of moss.

Instead of freeing him, the hands yanked Chester's arms upward, forcing him to his feet. "You scratched my cheek," his captor accused in a slightly stunned voice. "I think I'm bleeding."

At that moment, Chester wanted to do far more to this boy than make his cheek bleed. Brian clutched Chester's shins, and Chester could do nothing to protect him. Stella cried shrilly, scooting back against the base of a tree and pulling her legs up against her chest.

"Come on, serious," the boy sighed with exasperation. Chester was bodily turned until he could see nothing but lake and trees. The hands released him, but his wrists remained tightly bound. They had handcuffed him faster than _Cops_ on fast-forward.

If Chester could have lifted Stella, he'd have made a run for it. But he couldn't lift Stella, both because his hands were secured behind his back and because upon turning he found Stella hiked high in the arms of the boy with glasses. Stella continued to cry, twisting and squirming, pushing against the boy's grip. Brian took one look at his captured sister and joined in on her tears.

The broad shouldered boy, clearly a deadweight partner, continued to hang back. He watched scene with an expression of sickened fascination.

"I'm not going to hurt you." An apologetic voice called Chester's attention back to the boy with glasses. "If we leave you out here, you'll be dead by sundown." Emma yanked the boy's hair, and he snatched her hand away with a sharp hiss. "You're welcome, by the way, for saving your life."

Chester sneered, "You want a _thanks_? In your dreams. I'll cut your fingers off for this—don't doubt I won't."

The boy in the background took a halting step away from Chester, but the one holding Stella let out a scoffing laugh. "I'm sure. Just wait until we're at school. We've got to get back, or we could be missing more than fingers." Then he turned and began walking calmly, albeit a bit stiffly, away from Chester.

Stella reached over the boy's back, opening her arms wide for Chester. There wasn't anything Chester could do. He had no choice but to follow. Brian looped his hand under Chester's belt and took his place at Chester's side, warily watching the stick hanging loosely at the broad-shouldered boy's side.

"Serious," the boy holding Stella called. "Hurry up." There was a brief pause before the partner joined them reluctantly from behind. "They're okay, serious. I told you; they're just like normal people."

Either this guy seriously liked the word serious, or he'd never sat through an English class on word choice.

"They're filthy, James. I can't believe you're actually touching them."

Chester would have been insulted, had it not been the truth. Even after yesterday's jaunt in the creek, he could smell the three of them, and it wasn't pleasant.

'James' said nothing, ignoring the other boy completely. The group fell into a silent line with Chester and Brian in the middle, led forward like prisoners to the gallows. As they walked, the dizziness from earlier in the morning descended back down upon Chester. The long hours of hiking and carrying Stella without eating began to catch up with him. He focused on keeping his feet steady as he walked, ignoring the rushing in his ears, determined not to let any weakness show.

Black spots appeared in Chester's vision. Suddenly he found himself lying on his back, blinking up at a Brian and James' looming faces.

"Are you okay?" James patted Chester's cheek, even though his eyes were already open. A wet drop splashed on Chester's forehead; Brian still hadn't stopped crying, tears trailing slowly down the pale face.

Chester didn't feel okay. He felt dizzy and weak, and now the sick sensation that follows passing out had been added to his problems. So, naturally, Chester nodded roughly and rolled himself to his knees. "Don't touch me," he hissed, even though James had already backed away. Stella squirmed again, clearly not approving of the distance put between herself and Chester.

James shot a meaningful look over his shoulder, but Chester could hear the non-verbal command be declined: "I'll levitate him, but I'm not touching any of them. Do you have any idea how many diseases muggles carry?"

"No spells," James retorted with a roll of his eyes. The exasperation written across James' face had a dark, serious undertone. Chester was too busy breathing deeply through his nose to bother attempting to decipher the coded conversation.

A hand grabbed Chester's underarm, and Chester flinched. For the hundredth time, he repeated, "Don't touch me."

"Then don't faint. We're under some major time constraints here." Despite the boy's harsh tone, he waited (albeit a bit impatiently) for Chester to regain his equilibrium before continuing.

Chester followed James up a narrow, winding path through thickets of birches and maples. A glittering lake passed in and out of view. Great boulders, not unlike those in the sparse forest from wince they came, occasionally blocked their path. Brian smiled slightly as they clambered over the rocks, but otherwise kept a flat face. Even in the direst of moments, Brian still got a kick out of climbing. Not for the first time, Chester wondered who most deeply felt the gravity of the situation: Stella or Brian.

After nearly half an hour's walk, the woods opened into a sprawling clearing. From the meadow rose a tall hill, crowned with a wide ring of rubble. Chester wondered what store had stood in the site. A restaurant in a city park? A forest ranger station? A Wal-Mart? Probably a Wal-Mart. Why hadn't the prime real estate been snapped up the moment Wal-Mart relocated?

"Do we get to climb those, too?" Brian asked, a tad too eagerly.

"Climb what?" James closely watched Brian and Chester's expressions. Chester turned to look over the lake shining below.

"Don't talk to me," Brian bit back. He'd clearly picked up on Chester's reaction frame.

"You guys aren't… err… surprised?"

"By your choice of location for a pagan ritual? Shed our blood overlooking the crystal abyis?" If anything could surprise Chester at this point, it was the fact that he could quote his sixth grade lit teacher while calmly waiting for death.

Brian clutched one of Chester's bound wrists. "Who's bleeding?"

Chester didn't answer Brian's question. He turned and walked purposefully toward James, ignoring the threatening stance of James' friend. "She's about to be sick."

"What?" James cocked his head.

"Stella. She gets motion sick. Trust me; I speak from experience." Unable to point, Chester looked pointedly down at the stain on his pant leg.

Stella lay against James' shoulder, dopily sucking on her two fingers, eyes blinking shut every three seconds. The motion had lolled her into a half sleep. Nothing calmed Stella more efficiently than a stroller or car ride. Overall, she wasn't putting up a very convincing 'sick' act.

Luckily, either James didn't have any siblings or he was the kind of person who believes 'gulible' isn't in the dictionary. He quickly set Stella down on the ground and took a wary step back.

Immediately, Chester threw himself bodily against James. If blood must be shed, it would come from both sides. Chester wasn't going down without a fight.

Chester's right elbow struck James sharply in the stomach. James barely fought back. 'That's fine,' Chester decided as he kneed the boy ruthlessly. 'If he's a pacifist, he shouldn't have kidnapped us in the first place.'

James let out a strangled gasp. "Serious."

The second boy let out a harsh laugh. "You said no stunning spells." He appeared to be half enjoying the spectacle.

James finally let lose and struck Chester. The punch didn't land right. It glazed Chester's right cheek and threw him off balance, even though both were already on the ground. Chester bolted up, sprinting toward Brian, who stood stalk still facing the summit of the hill. "Run," he hollered.

Brian simply turned and gazed at Chester with round, glossy eyes. "That's a big train station."

'He's lost it.' The gravity of the situation hit Chester like a ton of bricks. He forced his feet to keep moving, but all he wanted at that moment was to bolt—not away from James, as would be expected, but straight back down that hill. 'Okay, we've both lost it.'

Then, suddenly, the apprehension lifted somewhat. Sure, he still feared the dark boy with the stick and the glasses-boy who couldn't throw a punch—but the urgency had somewhat abeited, like realizing one's homework is only overdue by a day instead of a week… except that death is much worse than a C minus.

Then he saw it.

It was Grand Central Station, and it _was_ big.

A mammoth building rose before Chester, standing in place of the ring of rubble. Towers rose up endlessly; huge gates glinted with shining steel; brick walls studded by gargoils stretched in all directions. The shabby grass under Chester morphed into a neatly mancured lawn. A clock chimed, sending long gongs vibrating through the air, but Chester couldn't locate it amongst the overkill of massive gothic architecture.

"That's just the entrance gate."

Chester snapped back into semi-reality. He swirled around to see James eyeing at him with a smug half smile.

A sensation of lightheadedness rushed over Chester and he again felt like passing out. "What's going on here," he asked faintly.

"Magic." The answer was given with more bemusement than sacasim. James' partner began laughing hysterically.

Chester now had no doupt that they were both seriously unhinged. "Magic, my ass. If this is some sort of military technology, you'll all be tried in military court, and then you'll be screwed."

Stella stood up, wobbling on her feet and puckering her lips into a sour expression. She appeared to have just now noticed that she'd been released. "Chesser?" she asked, raising both arms in a bid to be lifted despite the fact that Chester stood yards away.

James snatched her up before Chester could take two steps. He'd clearly realized exactly why Chester had followed him so obediently. Stella began to scream, pulling at James' hair and clawing the exasperated boy's face. "You guys are a pain," he gripped.

Chester felt no sympathy. "Yeah, well, better a pain than a murder."

Immediately, Brian burst into tears. Chester blinked rapidly to clear his own vision. He regretted the comment, but not for his captors' sakes.

"Murder?" The boy paused on his way up the hill. "Who's a murder?"

A shrill voice beat Chester to the punch. "You," Brian cried. "You guys killed my mommy and my daddy, and I'll kill you. I'll cut your fingers off, just like Chester did to that bad man. I hate you bad men with sticks; I hate you all!"

Brain turned and buried his face in Chester's pant legs, sobbing harshly. Chester's jaw dropped for the second time in as many minutes. "Brian," he admonished, half shocked and half sorrowfully proud.

"No," James began, his face twisted painfully. He took a step toward them, reevaluated the gesture, and backed off again. "That was someone else. I'm trying to help you get away from the bad men. I'd never… I swear… I'm not one of them."

The dark boy suddenly stirred. He'd been so uninvolved in the entire affair that Chester had nearly forgotten his existence. The laughter died from his eyes. "We are fighting the men." His heavily accented voice sounded shockingly deep and heavy. "Good people chased them away last night, but there might still be some around. Come with us and hide in the castle. You'll be safe there." He paused, grimaced, and seemed to force himself to add, "I'll keep you safe."

"Castle?" Stella stopped squirming abruptly. She pushed herself away from James with one hand and patted the front of her Cinderella princess dress with the other. "Pincess castle?"

"Er, close enough." James hiked Stella up higher in his arms. She sat still. The promise of a castle had clearly promoted James to her good list.

Once again, handcuffed and helpless Chester was left with no options but to follow.


End file.
